Saturday, May 12, 2012

Her Inner Goddess was bright red, humming, and painfully engorged as Joe drove right past the donut shop.
“But that's the – ” Arching one eyebrow, he looked at her, the disapproving gesture making her shut her mouth. He was in charge. He was in charge. He was in charge.
Everything down there got a little fuzzier, a little warmer, and she needed him. Now.
That fucking book. The words themselves were ridiculous, the writing subpar, but the overall effect – it was like reading an Amanda Hocking novel. You knew the writing needed work, but the story was gripping – so gripping she picked it right back up after throwing the damn thing against the wall.
The Red Room of Pain did her in. She wanted a man to want her, need her, to provoke and sensate and destroy her like that, all for his own bidding, all because he needed to transgress and violate every norm for her, her, her.
Instead, she had Joe chugging along in his little eco-friendly, politically-correct car, bungee cords ready for dumpster sex.
Ah, a girl could dream.
Inner Goddess and Red Room and helicopters and billionaires – she let her mind go back into the world of Ana and Christian as Joe drove down the fourth alley in ten minutes, looking for – what?
And here they were, finally parking.
Behind the blood bank.
“Wh – ” she started, then stopped.
He swept his arm out in a gesture of welcome, climbed out of the car, and ran around, opening her door for her. The gleam in his eyes made her breasts swell.
“Marcia, er...Ana – your dumpster awaits you.”
He had found a red dumpster – that's what all this searching was for? She laughed, took his hand, climbed out of the car and kissed him, her tongue jumping in, his taking over. Rough hands claimed her skin, hands she didn't think were attached to Joe as he tore her shirt off, the buttons popping and pinging onto the asphalt. Breathless, she pulled back.
“Off to the Red Dumpster of Pain with you!” he growled. Her Inner Goddess quivered and nearly exploded on the spot.
Both scrambled in quickly and Joe took one wrist, wrapped the bungee cord around it, and hooked it securely to the edge of the rusty metal wall. He was good at this – a little too, suspiciously good. In no time she was completely tied up, all four limbs connected to the metal, her skirt barely brushing against her knees, torn shirt limp and dangling around her ribs.
Exposed.
Controlled.
He slid off his gray necktie, the one with the tiny diamond pattern she had given him for his birthday a few years ago. She licked her lips as he slid it around her eyes, blindfolding her.
Now she was truly at his mercy.
Oh, shit.
She hadn't thought about it, really, when she'd suggested it tonight. Just wanted a taste of the sheer control, of letting go, that Ana had in the book. Hundreds of pages of that fucking book made her simmer, then start to boil, and the magic of the story wasn't in the prose, but in the images it put in her head, the movie that flickered and groaned as she imagined being in such a cat-and-mouse game.
But now here she was, utterly helpless, in a garbage dumpster behind a mini mall.
How did she really feel? This was Joe, not Christian. He would protect her.
Hot breath struck her ear. “What now?” Joe asked, one hand sliding to her pussy, a warm finger teasing the labia.
“You are in control,” she whispered.
“Rules, then. What is your safe word?”
She frowned. “You read the book?”
“Answer me,” he hissed, the finger now making its way to her nub, the pain of not being in full release worse than never being touched.
“Uh...safe word. Um, Belichick.”
He laughed, “Belichick?”
“Well, it has to be a word I'd never dream of using in this context, so yes.” Now he used two fingers inside her, sliding them in her soaking wet pussy, her ass resting on garbage bags full of what felt like plastic bags and small boxes. She groaned, the feeling too much, when he pulled away. A wet finger touched her nipple now, slid under her bra, while Joe's other hand reached behind her to unclasp the lingerie, freeing her breasts to the night air.
“Is this what you want?” he asked.
“Yessss....” Those fingers were her world now and she craved them, needed more, twisted against the cords that held her and it hit her – like being unable to orgasm anywhere except in a dumpster, some external force had total control over her.
Except this time, it was Joe.
“Are you sure?” he purred, one mouth tasting her wet nipple, rolling it under his tongue until her ass clenched, her pussy walls started to tremor, and she felt the rise of irritation and frustration from not being able to come just yet.
“Quit asking me! You're in control,” she whined, regretting the words the second they came out, but so much emotion in her throat, her ears, her ass, her Inner Goddess ready to weave some wicked spells and kill off some nerve endings.
He let out an exasperated sigh. “You know, Marcia, I can't reverse all these years of your being in control in one night just because you read that damn book.”
“Try harder!”
“Hell, Marcia, you've been the dominant one for so long that I'm out of practice!”
“But I want an alpha male!”
“Then go read a Bella Andre novel.”

Friday, May 11, 2012

Wait for it -- grinding through the Kindle process right now -- look for a Tweet when it goes live. Follow me on Twitter @dumpsterotica

Marcia and Joe are swept up in the 50 Shades of Grey mania that has hit middle-class America, and while Marcia devours the “Mommy Porn,” Joe scorns it – while secretly listening to a pirated audiobook on his morning commute.
Repulsed and magnetically drawn to it all at once, Marcia comes to Joe with a tantalizing request: can he be her Christian and she'll be his Ana? Is Joe capable of being a dom and Marcia a sub? A frantic search for just the right dumpster – the Red Dumpster of Pain – leads them to a blood bank on the far side of town. After a rousingly intimate session of ropes, whips, empty blood bags and more, they find themselves in their own surreal version of Twilight, as teenage vampires discover them and take advantage.
Are the kids really vampires, or just EMO? Does anyone really care? Just as they get rid of the Twilight crowd, though, an old nemesis appears, looking for blood in all the wrong places for a new art project he might never get a chance to finish...
Can Marcia finish reading 50 Shades without throwing it across the room again? What do Bella Andre, Taylor Lautner, Jon Hamm and Bill Belichick have in common? Will Joe ever really understand what Marcia's Inner Goddess wants? What the hell is an Inner Goddess? And does “down there” really describe anything, ever?
50 Shades of Garbage takes readers of the Dumpsterotica series on a new chapter of the Joe and Marcia saga, a down (there) and dirty look at how BDSM has gone mainstream – all the way to your local dumpster.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

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All About Allie

Allie Beck's passion is writing. She knew she wanted to be a writer when she was in second grade and published a poem in her elementary school newsletter titled: "Kierkegaard's Revenge: Reflections of Nietzsche in Barth's Work." She came up with the idea for Dumpsterotica after watching two skunks eating a John Edwards campaign poster out of a garbage can. Beck lives in a New England town known as a refugee point for accused witches and in her spare time sells Baby Jesus Butt Plugs to raise money for The Westboro Baptist Church. She does not own an electric toothbrush of any kind.